


Speak of the Devil (What, can the devil speak true?)

by Anonymous



Series: The Devil Made Me Do It [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Bickering, Body Worship, Crack Crossover, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Food, Insecurity, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Jealousy, Lucifer Morningstar - Freeform, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Meeting the ex, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, So Married, dinner with the ex, hell is a mess and Lucifer kicked the table, lucifer can't be bothered tbh, watch the idiots owning a business from now on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Crowley knows he ought to have told Aziraphale about that essential piece of information yet the thought keeps sliding from his mind like water from ducks. Now, a letter confronts him with his past and well... We all have demons in our closets, right?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) / Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) (past)
Series: The Devil Made Me Do It [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796209
Comments: 23
Kudos: 164
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

"You won't believe the amount of mud that can _accumulate_ under a front wing-- I mean, I know that's what's for, _but_ , _nngh,_ " Crowley grumbles, tossing his glasses away and stepping into the cottage, "is it necessary that it accumulates in _my_ car, and that _I_ have to be the one to clean it up?"

A faint gist of brimstone reaches his nostrils and his gut plummets in free fall down to his overpriced socks. His entire corporation goes into overdrive.

_Hell--_

_Shit. Aziraphale_.

Crowley storms in the kitchen forgetting all about the pound of mud garnered in his soles and how he’s probably going to sleep on the couch tonight if Aziraphale sees so much as a grain of dirt on the floor.

"Aziraphale!"

At first glance it seems like someone had a full-blown meltdown in the British Bake Off's set, holiday edition. There's cake batter splattered over the hardwood flooring, the white cabinet doors, the counter, and over the usually spotless angel's shoes. The offending baking pan lays toppled over the ridiculous tartan rug Aziraphale made a fuss about having. 

Right, then. An accident.

"What’s all this about?" Crowley huffs.

Past the first fear- induced paroxysm his heartbeat dwindles back to normal but the room still reeks of hellfire and Crowley doesn’t like it one bit. 

He whooshes out a breath until he realizes Aziraphale is not moving. His favourite Oxfords are covered in-- in-- egg and flour and Satan knows what else and he's just there. Standing. Clinging to the counter with his baking snake mittens as if the bloody thing would fall off otherwise. 

"Aziraphale?"

His eyes catch a faint swirl of smoke eddying away next to the angel's hand. Coming from a paper. A _very_ black one. Vantablack going on steroids or- or black hole made paper kind of dark. You just don't get that stationery in say, Regent Street.

_Oh no._

"Shit. Shitshitshit! That's from my boss, right?"

But he already knows the answer, and so does his gut judging by the set of olympic level acrobatics currently taking place there. 

Aziraphale turns around and Crowley sees he's pretty fucking peeved, fuming like a boiling kettle, his feathers probably all puffed up, cockatiel style, in whatever ethereal plane of existence they are right now.

"Angel? Talk to me, c'mon."

"He wasn't only your boss, was it?" Aziraphale inquires crotchetily, and Crowley sees the distinct lines of that fastidious expression of haughty contemptuousness, flaring alive in the angel's face. Unerringly directed at the letter. 

"What are you talking about, angel?"

" _Oh_ , you know what I mean."

Crowley squints. Aziraphale’s voice could’ve soured milk and fuck, perhaps it did. He’ll have to check in the fridge later. 

"Aziraphale-- what _did_ the letter say?"

"Why don't you see it for yourself, _dear_?" 

Crowley ventures a hand to the still smoking paper ignoring the loaded monicker. The letter is almost teared in half and somewhat crumpled in a corner. As if the previous reader had tried to stab it, only to realize it was perhaps a tad over the top, settling for the next best thing close to annihilation. "Go on, I won't stop you," Aziraphale says probably seeing him falter as he folds his arms, giving him a baleful look. 

The incandescent letters glow over the dark surface and Crowley finally takes heart to read them. 

" _My dear Crowley,_

_How have you been? It's such a pity not to see you around so often anymore. I know the whole disaster about Armageddon put a barrier between us but I want you to know I'm not mad at all, my darling miscreant."_

A rush of unholy heat creeps up Crowley’s spine. _Fucking mayday, really fucking shit._ He can feel Aziraphale’s eyes - all the way too many sets of them - glinting with utmost vexation, piercing him to the marrow. His own insufficient serpentine eyes, dart back to the still searing words. 

_"You ruffled all the not so metaphorical feathers, above and below, and I have to say I’m quite enjoying savoring my mistake, but yet again you were always a visionary. I'm having a bit of problems of my own and I remembered how good you were at helping me solve them, among other things you were also very good at._

_I do hope you haven't forgotten an old love and are doing well in that damp place you chose to live in. Drop by anytime you want, perhaps we could relive some past mischiefs._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Lucifer Morningstar._

_P.D: Find me in Los Angeles at Lux, or you could always summon me, I remember how much you used to like that little game of ours."_

"Ngk." Crowley's default non-committal onomatopoeia froths out as a buffer for the uncomfortable silence. It's unbelievable how cooped up the 5000 square feet cottage feels right now. 

_"_ Well?" Aziraphale demands.

Crowley feels the words bubbling in his throat, a fizz of jumbled deflection and nopes and very contrite _sorries_ . Yet something else is pushing up, up, _up_ until all Crowley can hear is a pleading:

“It’sssss not what you think!” 

Aziraphale rolls his earthly eyes and heaves an overly dramatic sigh. "What? That apparently you were Satan’s lover boy, you-- _miscreant_?" 

Yeah. Ok, that's completely uncalled for. Crowley grunts because he is the Serpent of fucking Eden and not a piece of smoked bologna. He knows he ought to have told Aziraphale about it but, how in Somewhere do you _convey_ that kind of, er, _information_? 

He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders. "Well…" 

"Are you telling me this is actually true?!" Aziraphale all but squawks.

The angel is practically spluttering, and Crowley just wants to get past this moronic hurdle and perhaps spent a nice evening with Aziraphale, a bottle of Pinot Noir, watching a rerun of Golden Girls _._ But that perspective seems to be drifting away rather quickly.

"C'mon angel, it was only sexual-- it didn't mean anything!"

By the way Aziraphale's jaw unhinges, and he goes into a full body clench, Crowley decides perhaps that was _not_ the best approach. 

"It was-- it was _only_ sexual he says!” Aziraphale stammers, all sense of propriety chucked out the nearest bay window, blinking like a deer caught in headlights, “because _that_ certainly makes it all better, isn't it?" 

The angel turns beet red, that blessed blush spreading like wildfire down his neck and the only thing Crowley wants is to toss that entire bloody conversation down the nearest drain and lick his way down that southbound route. He could scream. He's at the verge of it, as it is. 

And would someone tell his cock to just-- cut it out? Crowley sinks his fangs in his lower lip to gather his limited span of attention and _focus_. But that whole "slashing you with righteous fury" performance is making want burn between his legs like some sort of naughty and frankly masochist pavlovian response. 

And now there's a pulsing, unabated need of having a mouthful, armful, lapful of Aziraphale, thrumming through him whole. _Fuck, he loves him like this._

"This is important, Crowley!" Aziraphale says probably catching on the idiotic grin he's sporting.

"What? Thinking about taking a trip down to California? Go in a divine rampage?”

"You are infuriating,” Aziraphale grouses baring his snake mitten clad hands. “How could you've kept that information to yourself? What if he comes for you? I knew you had lovers before me but I never--"

"I-I didn't have lovers!" Crowley rectifies, because that's like stating somehow a beef is-- _whatever a beef isn't,_ and he won’t stand for it. "Just-- itches to scratch and a _ridiculously_ stubborn angel to yearn for, and, really, who’s fault is that, uh?”

"Oh ho! Don't you even dare to try to put this on me, you fiend" Aziraphale twirles away from Crowley again, snapping the whole culinary mess into some unheard pocket of reality. 

Crowley's mouth curls in a smile that has a very Original Tempter ™ quality to it. "I'm not putting anything on you little angel,-- _not yet_." He rests his hands on Aziraphale's waist, chin tucked in the crook of his neck and pushes the whole lithe mass of his body 'til there's not even a hairbreadth of space between them. 

Aziraphale's breath comes out in shallow, short exhales and the whole wave of a shudder wrecks him in Crowley's arms. It does things to him. Things it came hard to admit because-- _demon_ . And demons do not daydream about a touch or a scent or a kiss, albeit being fired from office or not. It had taken him a good year -- which in his defense isn’t _that_ long when you measure time in decades -- to stop short-circuiting like a broken household appliance every time Aziraphale did so much as hold him. Or viceversa. 

Just like now. 

Crowley inhales in the blessed burrow between shoulder and jaw. The rich base of sandalwood and the synesthetic purple hues of lavender, fragrant and soft and _loved_. Crowley can feel it all. Recognize it all. He damn well fucking loves it all. And as he said, it does things to him. His hips jut forward against Aziraphale’s buttocks, seeking a small spark of friction for his aching dick. 

He stows a soft peck on Aziraphale’s freckle strewn skin, like a map of sparkling distant stars, and just lingers there, fawning that loved flesh with feather light kisses. 

"And ah-- how was he?" Aziraphale asks, mid-moan, which is admittedly a bit obscene for a former denizen of Heaven, and completely right as Crowley’s husband. 

"In which way?" Crowley rasps, all his barely repressed want slipping oil slick from his forked tongue. "Kissing?" Crowley sucks intently Aziraphale's earlobe, working his way into breaking the shackles that bind the angel's control. "How I used to feel him burning in my mouth?" Aziraphale is cracking, a little sob as the sole telltale he's losing the skirmish but Crowley has it got pat down now. Aziraphale's already positively rutting against Crowley's hardness, giving those gut-twisting little whimpers Aziraphale reserves for Crowley’s touch or particularly good crêpes. Those that make Crowley’s brain go defunct. So he takes his time. Crowley pulls the angel by the hips against him, grinding against Aziraphale's arse unabashedly, eliciting something that's not quite a sob nor a cry. "How he took me _so well_? Or how good he felt inside me?"

Aziraphale’s white-knuckle grip on the counter tells Crowley everything he needs to know. The angel is gavotting down the sharp edge of a knife, lust and seething jealousy vying for victory. Crowley can feel it and it makes him dizzy, a tantalising aroma rising and dampening everything else. 

Crowley smiles. 

"Or perhaps,” Crowley follows, “how he used to read me his favourite books to help me sleep at night?" 

Aziraphale rhythmic sway stops abruptly, whirling to face him. 

“ _W-what_?” Aziraphale stutters, and Crowley knows the angel is mentally checking and rechecking dates and whatnot for good measure. “But--but there were no books back then... not even- not even clay tablets!”

The face of utter bafflement would’ve been endearing if it wasn’t also bloody fucking funny. 

“Course not angel, don’t be ridiculous, you’re just-- _so_ easy to tease,” Crowley says burying a most inconspicuous bout of laughter in the angel’s mouth. “I haven’t had with anyone what I have with you--” he says around searing kisses, “ _what I feel for you_ \-- six thousand years…” he trails off choking in words that are not enough. He thumbs Aziraphale’s jaw, relishing the way the angel seeks his open palm, chasing the contact, like looking for something precious only Crowley can give him. " _Nothing_ can even begin to compare," he whispers, heartfelt like a prayer, half for Aziraphale and half for himself. For a second that old pinprick of embarrassment burns in his cheeks; of being bare and true and afraid, no travesties, no lies. A holdover of the past. 

Old ways are so hard to let go. 

Yet Aziraphale catches him, trammeling the venom to go forth with a hug that would’ve broken his ribs if he wasn’t somewhat pliant. “You’re insufferable, you old serpent,” Aziraphale breathes fondly, burying the words in Crowley’s chest. 

"I fucking love you, you know that, don’t you?" 

Aziraphale acquiesces with a kiss, before pulling away, a smirk in his lips. “And you _do_ know that I see right through you, right love? Don’t try to slither your way out of this.” 

“Ugh. Ok, fine, but this is not fun.” Crowley sighs his defeat, finally relenting and elegantly pushes himself up to sit on the counter. “I don’t understand why you are so fixated on this, angel. Are you-- are you going to tell me you didn’t have anyone before me? At all? I mean, I don’t care about any of that, I made up my mind on that topic a long time ago.”

“Well-- yes,” Aziraphale avers, blushing to his hairline, “but Gabriel was never ruler of Heaven, as much as he would’ve liked to be." 

Crowley stiffens, almost falling off the counter like a dead weight. “That’s-- That’s so much worse! That’s worse than duck poop-- that’s-- Oh, for someone’s sake!” He flails his arms like wanting to swat at the very idea of it. “ _You_ dated the archangel fucking Gabriel! No, no, wait-- YOU WERE _FUCKING_ THE ARCHANGEL GABRIEL!” 

“Oh for God’s sake, Crowley, don’t be obscene,” Aziraphale says rolling his eyes. “I didn’t do _the_ sex if you want to know-- it was purely intellectual.”

“Nnhg.”

“Really dear, he was just helping me sort things out, being a newly created angel was a bit hard, you know that--” Aziraphale sing songs, a true image of virtue. “He was nice enough and you know I like nice things.”

“ _I like nice things_ ,” Crowley mocks wrinkling his nose, voice scaling up five octaves. “I bloody hate you.”

Aziraphale’s face is still as placid as a painting. “Do you now, uh?”

A second pulses in Crowley's temples while Aziraphale sifts through the conventionally delivered mail. And then another. 

"So uh, what _did_ he show you?" Crowley asks with the same rehearsed aloofness he used to put in his work veneer. 

"Well, you know, this and that, the ways of Heaven, the dos and don'ts." Aziraphale directs an intent gaze to the ceiling, pressing his lips in a thin line. "He was a rather good kisser, I recall."

"Oh, _shut up_."

_'I don't care about any of that, my ass.'_

He buckshots down and cradles Aziraphale's head. He crushes the angel's mouth with his, like trying to prove a point; to claim and mark. And the kiss is fierce, damp lips pressed and bitten, want burning like napalm, no elegance, just raw need. It's always like this for Crowley, flaying himself open, feeling much, _too much,_ and melting in Aziraphale's arms. Aziraphale who is breathtaking and beautiful and _his_ beyond doubts. He twirls his tongue around the angel's, his taste exploding in Crowley's mouth. 

And Aziraphale, wonderful, exquisite creature that he is, moans his delight with a tug of fiery hair.

Crowley pulls away, pride and sheer lust flaming from every pore. "Better than that?" 

"I'm not quite sure, dear." Aziraphale's eyes spark with greed, holding fistfuls of Crowley's shirt. "You should try again for good measure."

" _Fuck_ , you're such a bastard," Crowley purrs into his ear, trailing kisses down Aziraphale's neck. "He can be an archangel, love, but I can show you the stars--" Crowley breathes with bone-chilling certainty, "and not just, y’know, _figuratively_."

"Oh, goodness, is that a promise?" 

Crowley smirks at the whole contradiction Aziraphale is: eager hunger wrapped in gleaming virtue. All under his fingertips; something it’s becoming increasingly easy to fathom with every passing year. 

"You know me, I'm a demon of my word."

_His. His, his, his._

And there the beloved bowtie goes, kissing the floor in all its checkered glory. Crowley wedges a leg between Aziraphale’s, feeling the bulging erection straining against the cream trousers. So sinful. So right. 

But then reality warps itself in foul strings, making them both jump up, and decks an envelope on the granite countertop. Tartarean mail service at its finest. 

“For Satan’s bollocks!” Crowley outcries.

“Quite literally this time.”

“Oh, you shut up.”

Crowley’s heart thumps out of rhythm for a quick second while he turns, reaching for the letter. The sigil of Lucifer himself. _Again_. 

_“Hello Crowley darling,_

_We meet again. I apologize for the profuse number of missives, but I just had the most wonderful idea. I need to close some business down in dreary old London, so I thought, what a marvellous opportunity to catch up with my favourite reprobate. I’m inviting you to have dinner with me, whenever and wherever you deem appropriate and if something else arises, well…_

_Don’t mind if I do._

_Sincerely,_

_Lucifer Morningstar.”_

Crowley goes through several shades of red until settling on a soft vermilion that’s doing nothing for his dignity. 

“You’re not going," Aziraphale blurts out, almost perched on his shoulder like a nosy parrot. 

“What?”

“I said--”

“I heard what you said, Aziraphale, but why?” Crowley asks, turning to face him. “You just don’t say no to Lucifer himself-- just, no.”

“I don’t care,” Aziraphale bristles. “He is the King of Hell, the Adversary!” Aziraphale sputters, apparently scraping the barrel of words looking for excuses, before giving up. “He’s practically throwing his own infernal self at your feet!”

“I think you’re overreacting, angel.”

“Am I?”

“Look, he’s not-- you don’t know him, that’s just how he talks. And he has his own agenda, his own people now. He doesn’t want the world to end--” Something in Aziraphale's whole demeanor finally drills in Crowley's brain. ”Are you jealous, dove?”

“Of course not!" Aziraphale scoffs. "It can be very dangerous, Crowley. It's not me being jealous of you going out with your boyfriend.”

Crowley quirks a brow, a puckish smile on his lips. 

"Really."

Time ticks by.

"Well, fine!" Aziraphale cracks. "Perhaps, a tiny bit-- but I'm still worried about it, dear."

"Come with me then, be my guardian angel," Crowley says pulling Aziraphale by the hips. "Save me from the great beast."

It's risky. Crowley well damn knows it. A snap and they both could be _finito_ . Kaput. Deep, bottom down, he'd rather wish for Aziraphale to remain as far away as possible from any ethereal or occult being in existence. But there's an _our side._ A promise both made long ago and he knows Aziraphale won't stand just watching from the sidelines. They'll face Satan together. It won't be the first time.

_Different circumstances._

"Oh, I will, darling," Aziraphale smirks, "you can bet I'm _coming_ with you."

Crowley's started by a most out of character pat on the arse and a look that makes him feel naked all of a sudden. Aziraphale just--

 _Double entendre_. 

"Totally a bastard," he mutters. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We added a chapter to include self indulgent smut because why not?

"Did you know it took me a whole flicker to get rid of your mess?"

Crowley blinks once over the rim of his mug, which Aziraphale knows is one time too many. "'m sorry, my what?"

"The muddy puddle you left on my perfectly polished floors, Crowley." 

"Your floors?" Crowley quirks a brow, taking a sip of coffee, completely unfazed. "Silly me, thinking this was also my house."

Aziraphale makes something akin to a tsk and doesn't stomp only due to be sitting at the table for breakfast. "You very well know what I mean," he says. "Next time you'll clean it up on yourself. No miracles."

"Uh, sure, angel." 

For all the times Crowley has shown his contentious vein about the most menial matters, Aziraphale is thoroughly disappointed when the demon agrees with a shrug and resumes his perusal of  _ the _ Google. 

Aziraphale grits his teeth. The heavenly smell of fresh scones and clotted cream is making nothing, but worsen his mood. 

The perspective of seeing Lucifer  _ again  _ is starting to dawn on him, causing all sort of reactions, willy nilly, to his corporation. His heart is racing, his temples pounding, and his mind wandering through terrifying scenarios. He hears Crowley start talking and he conjures up a smile he hopes is cheerful enough. 

Deep, deep down, there's the seed of something far more painful, blooming and festering. Something foul that is already gnawing at his frankly ample gut… and that's precisely the problem.

"... so, you see, it was hilarious angel, I tell you that... fishing rods all tangled, those sods all in a fucking snit…"

Aziraphale never met Lucifer back in Heaven; an archangel far too up in the hierarchy for a measly principality to know him, albeit the rumors about how divinely beautiful he was, were rampant among the lesser choirs. 

He  _ certainly _ hadn’t been a joy to look at in Tadfield. 

_ A beautiful, sadly dashing face, mangled and corrupted, gradually deliquisicing… just fading in molten amber… _

Aziraphale had had his own time to reflect about the fall and despite his curiosity he'd made the solid promise aeons ago not ever to bring up the topic with Crowley. He doesn't think he could bare the weight of reality sinking with accurate details from Crowley's mouth. He doesn't think he could bare to witness pain twisting Crowley's face. 

And that means he has no manner of knowing which version of Satan they are going to be dealing with in a few hours. As far as he knows Hell has never been gentle, nor encouraged beauty to bloom and yet--

Aziraphale sneaks a glance at Crowley. Crowley all fine lines, almost liquid in his movements, an epithet of beauty if there ever was one... Is it too far fetched to consider perhaps the King of Hell may have retained some of his old appeal? In any case Aziraphale is far from competing with it.

His stomach churns while his treacherous brain pulls him to things that shouldn't matter anymore. But they do. And they  _ hurt _ . 

A hand that should be more firm and less plump, curves over his stomach. Even his wedding band disagrees with his finger, squeezing the surrounding flesh until it seems it’s positively clamoring for mercy. 

“... now they can all go to Surrey for their seabasses for all I care… filthy fucking tossers, leaving all their trash on the shore…”

And Gabriel,  _ wanker _ \- by Crowley’s words - or not, may not have been entirely wrong about his assertions regarding the physical aspects of his corporation. 

“... and before you say anything, because I know you will, think about this as a blessing…”

Aziraphale’s eyes swivel down to his scones. Perfectly golden and absolutely scrummy. He could make a sacrifice and lay off a bit on the food in order to keep up with his appearance. To make Crowley  _ proud _ . 

“... so yeah, put the fear of Crowley in them, ‘ts what I did. Got the impression we won’t see them again.”

Aziraphale sighs. 

“Angel? Are you even listening?”

“Yes, yes. Jolly good, dear, you did it wonderfully." Aziraphale can't stand looking at his plate without salivating. He gets up almost knocking off his chair. "Are you done?"

Without waiting for an answer he takes both their plates and walks toward the sink. Maybe if he concentrates hard enough he can block the swirling smell of cinnamon reaching his nostrils and deceive his stomach with some lettuce. Dreadful things lettuces.

"Azira- Aziraphale!" Crowley springs from his seat, catching the angel by the waist. "What are you doing? You haven't finished--  _ I _ haven't finished--"

"Well, were you going to?"

"Not really-- but I like to pretend I could have."

Aziraphale releases from Crowley's grip and resumes his previous and very domestic task of cleaning the dishes.  _ The human way _ . It's soothing, grounding. Just another loop in the solid chain of cotidianity,  _ intimacy _ , he shares with Crowley.  _ His Crowley _ . Aziraphale cherishes every moment, every little trinket, every so blessed second of sleepless nights or languorous kisses under pale sun beams at the crack of dawn. Love is not the issue, love is never the issue. Crowley loves him.  _ He does _ . It’s scorched in every touch and gift, even in things as silly as freshly baked scones served for brunch.

And right now, he can't bare to toss the scones. Not yet. 

He gives them one last sorrowful look.

"Ok. Stop." Crowley sneaks in front of him. "What's this all about?" He says gesturing at the plates. "You look like you just murdered your first born, which I'll say is very up your lot's alley but still."

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale tilts his head completely disregarding the taunt , suddenly very interested in a dark spot near the sink. "Oh goodness, is that mold?" The previously innocuous stain of coffee founds itself very surprised to realize it's now indeed, mold.

"Oh, c'mon, angel, don't give me that. Why are the scones still in your plate and not in your belly?"

"It's-- It's nothing dear, really. I just thought maybe I could--" Aziraphale smooths his hands over the waistcoat he still insists in wearing and clears his throat. "Maybe I could lay off a bit on the food for a while."

Crowley's face distorts in the best depiction of bewildered Aziraphale has seen to date. " _ Why _ ?"

"Well, you'll see," Aziraphale says, tugging at his collar. "Being your companion for the occasion-- I know that's rather important for you."

"What?"

Aziraphale wrings his hands, ignoring the fact that he knows it's a clear giveaway he's struggling to vocalize the maelstrom inside him. "Today. The appointment with Lucifer that is."

"Yeah, sure,-- and?"

"I don't want to make  _ you _ look bad, Crowley," Aziraphale says with far too much ache lingering in his voice.

Crowley's brow is etched in a deep frown.

"What are you--? Make me look bad? Angel, seriously, that's not--"

"Oh hush, dear. It's only that I don't want anyone to mock you, because you chose me."

" _ What _ ?"

"Oh, Crowley, please, you are no fool, stop acting like one, it doesn't suit you." Aziraphale wants to turn away, but Crowley holds him by the shoulders. 

"Really, angel, I don't--"

Aziraphale could scream. As it is he finally snaps. "I mean look at you! You are the Original Tempter, you gave the humans the archetype of everything that's beautiful and I'm--" Aziraphale sighs. "I'm just--  _ me _ ."

Crowley is gaping but before he can hiss a word, Aziraphale follows, not ready to face what he just did. What he just  _ said _ . 

"I know you love me, but let's face it dear, I'm hardly  _ something _ someone would look at twice." Aziraphale schools his eyes to not well up with tears. "And I'm certainly  _ not _ the most beautiful angel that ever existed," he lets out with just a zing of venom.

_ Oh, dear. _

Aziraphale's breath is already hitching, his cheeks flushed and the only thing he feels is a horrendous morass of shame curdling inside him. 

"Woah, woah, woah."

Crowley takes a step closer and Aziraphale can see that sweet, adoring brush of tenderness slathered all onto his demonic face. Crowley cups his jaw.

"First, you are not  _ some thing _ \-- that's just fucked up." Crowley gives him a peck on his upturned nose. "And second, yes, yes you are, angel."

"Crowley, please--"

"No, no, hear me out, okay?"

Aziraphale is too busy biting just a bit of the inside of his cheek to quash down the spur of being-- not enough. 

"Angel, I won't claim to have met every angel in every choir but," Crowley says, "I did meet Lucifer back in Heaven-- yeah, yeah, don't make that face, I know where this is coming from."

Aziraphale tries to talk but Crowley ignores him.

"And let me tell you, it wasn't Lucifer the one I fucking pined for for six bloody millenia." Crowley pulls him into an embrace, his mouth brushing Aziraphale's ear. "You got me all twisted around your pretty little finger since day one-- well, whatever day at the Garden that was."

Aziraphale sighs. Apparently there's no better way for his corporation to express his frankly mild grievances than by heaving sighs a plenty.

"I know that dear," he says and if a bit of smugness clings to that statement, Crowley doesn't say a thing. 

"Then, what's wrong?"

Aziraphale disentangles from the lean limbs of his husband and stares at his reptilian eyes intently. 

"Crowley," he says very seriously, "do I give you  _ the _ hots?" 

Crowley’s lips form a thin line. A thin, twisted line, curving slightly upwards. "Aziraphale, love, that's not---" 

"What?'

The demon bites his lips, a fang showing. He smiles. "Yes, dove, you give me  _ the _ hots."

"Well, I don't believe you.” Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest suddenly over conscious about every single inch and pound of  _ extra _ flesh in him and blushes. “What do you really see in me, Crowley, I mean...physically?" The tips of his ears are cherry red, his voice slightly wavering. 

Crowley licks his lips. "Better show you, then."

The hoarse, raspy undertones stowed in that sentence make Aziraphale's corporation tingle with unexpected heat. 

Carefully, the same way you'd approach a particularly scared bird, Crowley takes Aziraphale's arms, bringing one hand to his lips. Gently, so gently, the touch is nothing but just an echo of something deeper, Crowley kisses Aziraphale's knuckles, undoing the ivory buttons of the cuffs of his shirt, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows. 

"Where should I start?", Crowley whispers to his ear. "I remember the first thing that caught my attention were these arms." Crowley slides a finger down the line of the forearm muscle, and Aziraphale swallows audibly. "Strong enough to carry a flaming sword that wasn't light at all-- I kept thinking how would it feel to be subdued by them," he says. "To be subdued by you."

Aziraphale feels positively feverish while Crowley follows the trace of freckles on his arms with feather light kisses. The knee-jerk rebuff gets stuck to his palate and Crowley's lips are tackling one letter at a time. 

Then it's the bowtie and waistcoat's turn which are gone with a snap so Crowley can undo the first button of his shirt. 

"And whenever I managed to find you, I fucking burned to get closer to you." Crowley's voice is husky and rough around the edges and Aziraphale clutches to the countertop because his knees feel wobbly. "Do you remember Rome and the oysters?  _ You _ were the aphrodysiac, angel-- To see you eat almost drove me insane, all those little moans and whimpers-- you really don't know what you do to me."

Aziraphale is struggling, half hard already, heat arrowing through his spine. He wants to voice,  _ take me, take me, I'm yours! _ But there's a sliver of vain that screams  _ more _ . 

Crowley kisses Aziraphale's neck, nipping and nibbling, sinking his fangs when Aziraphale senses he's fraying. And Aziraphale groans, feeling a heady coil of want unraveling in his gut, pushing everything aside but the need, hitting him heavy as a lorry, to scream,  _ fuck me, fuck me, Crowley, please. _

_ Oh, dear God. _

"This neck," Crowley hums, "your scent-- Aziraphale, it took me  _ blood _ to resist you, to fight the urge to know how my fangs would've sinked in your skin. Perfectly."

And he indeed does as he says.

"Crowley…"

The lust reeking from his own voice makes blood pool in Aziraphale's cheeks and his cock firms up, straining against his trousers and  _ oh, God, have mercy _ ; he sounds like a helpless wanton. 

"No, shush," Crowley hisses. "Let me show you, you don't get to hate your body because I love it and I won't allow it."

His deft fingers finish unbutton Aziraphale's shirt, exposing miles of creamy skin, speckled with freckles that look like gold under the bright light of day. 

Crowley rakes a nail over Aziraphale's chest, leaving a red path in its wake. "Look at that," he says, breath puffing against Aziraphale's mouth, just a touch of possessiveness behind his words. "It's so easy to mark you mine."

Crowley flicks his tongue over Aziraphale's skin. "And the way you respond to me, and only me," he rasps, twisting Aziraphale's nipples…

A moan bordering on cry out bounces off the walls.

"Crowley,  _ please _ ." Aziraphale's cock is throbbing, hard and leaking and he feels his very bones rattling with arousal. 

" _ Not yet _ ."

Crowley's hands settle in the angel's love handles, squeezing them gently then following the smooth curve of Aziraphale's stomach.

"Do you have a problem with this?" He says reveling in the soft skin of Aziraphale's torso, before completely wrecking Aziraphale's brain with a deep kiss. "Because this is part of our story, dove, every tavern, every meal, every time we sat together and you smiled at me with that pretty mouth of yours."

Crowley takes one of Aziraphale's hands and places it at the front of his black, impossibly tight jeans, where his cock is rock hard and waiting. "This is what you do to me, angel."

Aziraphale is certain he must be about to combust out of sheer desperation if he's not bent over the counter and fucked raw  _ now _ . Or if he doesn't get to fuck Crowley in the next minute or so.

"Crowley…"

The demon sits on his hunches and unzipped Aziraphale's trousers, rolling them down and out of the way. Aziraphale's cock springs out, the head purple and glistening with precum, and this, this must be some kind of Hell-born torture, he thinks. Crowley flicks his forked tongue out and licks a patch of milky skin on his thighs, skirting just around where Aziraphale aches to be touched.

"I mean," Crowley says, "can it get better than these thighs? Nah, I don't fucking think so."

Crowley spreads Aziraphale's legs apart and bites a bruise in each inner thigh. 

"Angel, I would've fucking  _ ruined you _ since the first time I set eyes on you." Crowley holds on Aziraphale's hips and the angel is half a step away to bang his head on the counter if he doesn't get a release.  _ Soon _ .

There's a tight, sharp sensation in Aziraphale's chest as Crowley licks just at the side of his sack and Aziraphale growls. Like an animal. How unbecoming. His hands fiddle with the idea of burying themselves in that fury red hair and just do  _ something _ . But Aziraphale waits, dazed as he is.

"I love you, angel, in whatever way you choose to rack that beautiful brain of yours about." Crowley licks stripes on his thighs, closer and closer to his cock. "But given that you  _ know _ that," he adds with just a hint of snide, "I'll say that you give me more than  _ the _ hots, you silly little angel." 

"Crowley, please--  _ please _ ."

Aziraphale bites his fist because his mind is reeling, completely lust-addled---

And then Crowley closes a hand around the base of his cock and takes him in his mouth. 

Aziraphale wrenches his eyes shut.  _ Oh, God, have mercy.  _ He feels himself gliding along Crowley's tongue, mouth hot and wet and that fire that must burn like Hellfire, roils in his gut and he grits his teeth to not finish there and--

_ No, no, that'd be dreadful.  _

Crowley sucks once, hollowing his cheeks and Aziraphale feels like something molten is revolving inside him. Crowley's slurps and the general mess of it has Aziraphale curling his toes, every muscle going taut as a string as he feels himself hitting the back of Crowley's throat and it's tight, tight,  _ tight _ ...

His hands grab fistfuls of Crowley's locks and Aziraphale pushes once, just once, before Crowley forces him out of his mouth,  _ blessed mouth _ , with a loud pop and a fair amount of saliva and Aziraphale hears a keen whimper that is just him.

Needy and hungry and bloody desperate.

"Turn around and grab onto something, angel," Crowley croaks hoarsely.

And Aziraphale complies, too fast and too eager and bends just a little because he needs Crowley's cock or he may go mad.

It's too long, too damn long, until he hears the jingle of a belt buckle and the rasp of a zipper going down. He might have whimpered or gasped or moaned rather indecently but he's past caring.

"This okay, love?" Crowley says placing a hand around his waist and groping at the supple flesh of his arse with the other. 

"Yes, yes, Crowley, please."

He feels a finger prodding at his hole but this has been too long already and if he waits a minute more  _ he _ is going to start bouncing off the walls. So he snaps his fingers. He gets the effect wanted at the second attempt, brain-boggled as he is.

"Now, Crowley," he demands.

Crowley chuckles but says nothing, prying Aziraphale's buttocks apart before rubbing his cock between his cheeks, coating it in the slick miracled there. He pushes forward until the head of his cock is in and Aziraphale feels that burning stint of blessed stretch. 

"Fuck, angel, you're always so very fucking tight."

Aziraphale spreads his legs apart as much as his damn trousers, pooling at his ankles, allow it. He squirms trying to make Crowley thrust all the way in, feeling a void in the wet darkness within him, wherever Crowley's cock is not. He scrambles at Crowley's hands trying to make him shift, to make the demon take him faster.

"In me--" Aziraphale warbles. "In me, in me, in me."

He doesn't want to adjust, he doesn't want for Crowley to go slow, he just wants to be taken and be ravaged and be sore for days to come. 

"As you wish."

Crowley pushes in with a groan, levering on Aziraphale's hips, before wrapping and arm around him for preventing to slam Aziraphale against the granite countertop.

Aziraphale huffs a breath while Crowley draws back and the drag, wet and messy and so, so very tight has Aziraphale clamping on Crowley's dick already.

"Fuck, angel, this is going to be over soon if you keep doing that."

Aziraphale feels himself being stretched wide as Crowley presses in again, until he bottoms out and the angel lets out a string of indistinct garbled noises.

Crowley's grunts and his own whimpers mix as the demon pumps his hips in a pace that's not gentle nor smooth. Crowley's nails dig into his skin with a bit of despair and Aziraphale bends completely, resting his cheek over the cool granite, all of him pliant and willing, receiving thrust after thrust. 

They've made love hundreds of times before during the past ten years and yet this feels different, that oppressing woe-begone feeling finally fading in Aziraphale's chest. 

"You've no idea," Crowley grunts mid hard thrust, "how perfect you are and nobody can say otherwise."

"Ah, Crowley!" Aziraphale gasps, helplessly, all the words fucked out of him. "More!"

And,  _ Heaven be damned _ \--, he's indulged in earnest. 

"Ah, fuck, angel-- I could fuck you for hours, wank at the idea of your ass, your cock, your face-- how good you take me…"

Crowley gives a hard press.

"Just like now."

Aziraphale feels himself being pushed over the cliff and tumbles over with a hard gasp, coming untouched under a deep thrust of Crowley's cock hitting just right  _ there _ . He goes limp, falling in Crowley's arm, sparks of white popping behind his eyelids, while Crowley fucks him through the shudders. 

Crowley's panting, his breath shallow, rutting again and again against Aziraphale's wet heat and Aziraphale revels in letting the demon use him for his own pleasure. To be filled, and ravished and marked.

"Can I?"

It's not more than a wet, muffled groan against his back but Aziraphale nods, knowing what Crowley's asking from him.

"Yes, yes, love." 

Aziraphale feels the demon pulling out with a groan, pumping spurts of cum all over his arse and back, just as he likes to do when the tethers of his control are severed.

It's sinful this feeling, but Aziraphale can't help to smile like a fool at the trails of come sliding down his thighs, Crowley's fingers smearing it between his asscheeks. 

"You're mine, don't you angel?" Crowley says idly drawing circles with his spend on Aziraphale's back. "You're covered in me, and you're going to smell like me today."

Aziraphale moans. A bedraggled, sticky, shivering mess of an angel.

Crowley snaps his fingers, miracling everything clean but certain  _ spots _ in Aziraphale's body and makes the angel turn around.

"Please, angel, don't ever think like that again, okay?" Crowley says, voice washed golden already. 

Aziraphale smiles, mirth in his guileless blue eyes.

"I love you, dear." He kisses Crowley, lacing his arms around the demon's waist. It feels good to have a home, he thinks.

"You okay there?" Crowley asks caressing his cheek. 

Aziraphale's strength is starting to wane and suddenly he feels voracious. "Never better, dearest."

"Then please, will you finish your breakfast? We still have a lot to do."

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

"Isn't a bit much?"

Crowley finishes buttoning his black blazer and admires the result in the bedroom mirror. Not a crease. "Nah, angel. Looked up the place and seems quite posh."

"Oh."

It's merely a gasp but Crowley turns to see Aziraphale pensively looking down himself. 

"Angel, you needn't to worry, you look perfectly fine," he says, reading the concern in Aziraphale's face.

Aziraphale steps in front of the mirror and pulls tentatively at his worn waistcoat, nonplussed by Crowley's ophidian tendencies of slithering arms around his waist.

"Would you terribly mind if I try something new?"

"New? Like in clothes?"

"Yes, perhaps something more up to date?"

"'Course, angel, you needn't to ask me. Try if you want."

Aziraphale seems to consider his figure, his eyes glinting suddenly.

"Oh, I know just the thing!"

He snaps his fingers and Crowley founds himself staring at a sand colored Dormeuil suit, perfectly perched on the angel.

Bespoke. Modern. 

Rather  _ alluring _ .

"What do you think, my dear?"

Crowley licks his lips and tries not to think with the little head downstairs, which proves quite hard. He regards a look at Aziraphale's arse which is magnificently enhanced by the trousers and follows up the path to the broad shoulders, perfectly encased in cream colored fabric. He goes a bit brain dead when he gazes at Aziraphale's beautiful hands, now adjusting his cufflinks. 

"I think, er,-- Maybe we should cancel the whole thing. Stay in? I can show you what I think instead of just telling you," he says burrowing a kiss in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. "Much more fun."

Aziraphale squirms a little and gives that giggle Crowley knows so well. "No, no, darling. You said so yourself! It's rather important we attend much as I'd like to take you on that offering."

"Ugh. Why? Why did I agree to this? Remind me again?" Crowley reluctantly straightens and adjusts his tie and the inconvenient bulge at the front.

"Perhaps because he has you, and by that I mean us, effectively grabbed by the metaphysical bollocks?"

"Ngh. Fair point."

The clock marks 8 somewhere in the living. 

"Ok, angel, time to get going but you'll have to wear that again-- just for us and not so far in the future. Let's say, tomorrow." Crowley places a chaste kiss on Aziraphale's lips. 

"If we survive tonight, I'll happily oblige, my dear."

"Wh-- ngh." Crowley splutters, ambling out of the room with Aziraphale close behind, and trying to derail his mind from the impending crash with his former boss. "Can't believe it took Satan himself to make you wear something from this century. I should say thanks-- Er, send a cake-- You get my point."

"You can do it in person now, dear. Nothing better than the personal touch."

"Ngk." 

* * *

The place is the definition of lavish. Crowley can count at least three-- no, four - if he counts the adjacent hotel - big, fat sins wrapped in sleek metal and shining glass. Aziraphale is pressed next to him as if looking for shelter; his body a warm, soothing presence. They hold hands as they cross the threshold making their way to the front desk, and Crowley can't shake the feeling of being swallowed by the maws of Cerberus. Which is idiotic because they are in central London and the damn dog has been out of service for ages.

"Um, hello, er- receptionist person, we're here for a meeting? Reservation under the name Morningstar, I believe."

"She has a name, Crowley," Aziraphale chastises him softly, leaning closer. "It's right there in the tag."

Crowley quirks a brow and shrugs.

The young lady at the reception guides them to one of the areas at the back of the restaurant; a whole sector removed from the floor with direct access to waiters and kitchen. 

A gentleman sits there, perfectly tailored suit, and a handsome face under the dim lights. There's a bottle of wine and three glasses already waiting for them. Crowley starts feeling a bit ill.

The man stands, calling a waiter and then strolls in their direction with a smile that could be the main piece of an art collection.

Crowley feels a rather strong squeeze at his hand. "This is not the one we saw in Tadfield!" Aziraphale whispers frantically. 

"The one in--? Course not, angel. This' his human form. He can't go around all beasty-ish with the horns and whatnot all the time," Crowley says. "Would be bad for business. Gaining followers would be quite the hardship...for most people I mean-- I don't get a lot of kinks."

"He looks so… different," Aziraphale mutters.

"Hot, you can say hot, angel of the Eastern Gate," the man says with a charming smile. He extends a hand which Aziraphale takes reluctantly.

He then swirls to Aziraphale's left. "My beautiful Crowley, welcome darling." He clasps Crowley's shoulders, giving him a kiss in each cheek and Crowley can feel Aziraphale's murderous glare drilling the back of his skull. 

"Ah-- nnghh-- at your service, my Lord." Crowley bows and a shiver wrecks his spine. He knows better than anyone Lucifer is smooth as velvet and treacherous as the sea. This could go either way.

"Now, now, none of that, my old friend," he says, his smile not faltering in the slightest, "we have no ranks here. You and your dashing companion are here as my guests. Why don't you introduce me?"

"Nnnngh-- Lucifer, this is my, my--" He bites his forked tongue. The word  _ 'husband'  _ scribbles to get out yet the fear of Hell using Aziraphale as leverage against him, has his heart hammering away. "This is my friend Aziraphale," he says finally. 

"Oh, darling don't be rude. My little  _ protegé _ , I taught you better than that. I believe the word you're looking for is  _ husband _ ." 

Crowley's stomach drops to the parking lot.

Lucifer turns a radiant smile to Aziraphale, which seems on the verge of snapping or running away. "Don't let him treat you like that. He can be quite an arse sometimes," he says making Aziraphale splutter in clear indignation. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Aziraphale. Now, come along gentlemen and take a seat. Aziraphale, yes, right here next to me. Good."

Crowley's nostrils flare when Lucifer ushers Aziraphale to the table with a hand placed at the small of his back. He knows - has experienced them in the flesh more times than he can count - the tactics of the Fallen One. Lord of the Underworld or not, he won't stand for him toying with his angel.

They sit on the table, following Lucifer's instructions much to Crowley's chagrin, and Crowley places a hand on Aziraphale's thigh for good measure. 

Lucifer, the magnificent host that he is, pours the wine himself in the glasses, eyeing them with interest.

"I hope you'll both enjoy this one," he says with a smirk. Crowley reads  _ Châteauneuf-du-Pape  _ in the label and grits his teeth. "I suspect it will be highly satisfying."

Before Crowley can squeeze Aziraphale's thigh in a silent warning, the angel takes the glass to his lips and utters the soft moan Crowley was trying to prevent. He can feel his cheeks heating up and a curl of possessiveness nesting in his gut at the frankly overt display of attention from Lucifer's part.

"My, my, you're quite the little hedonist, isn't it, angel?" He says with an impish smirk.

If the fork doesn't bend in Crowley's hand it must be because some sort of occult interference. The one currently teasing his husband. 

Aziraphale blushes and titters. "Well, I do like to indulge in all the good things Earth has to offer. It's hardly a sin isn't?" 

Lucifer's eyes glint under dark brows and the little hairs at the back of Crowley's neck stand up. He doesn't think asking Lucifer to judge the desires of their souls could have a good outcome. 

Aziraphale holds Lucifer's gaze, slightly slack jaw, and Crowley feels time relenting dominion to the King of Hell.

And then Lucifer laughs, a rich and velvety sound that seems to resume activities around them

"Far be it for me, to call an angel's morality into question, my dear," Lucifer says with a salacious smile and quirk of a brow. He gestures to the waiter, standing nearby. "I like this little angel of yours, Crowley. You always had such a good taste."

Aziraphale blushes fiercely, throwing a knowing look in Crowley's direction and Crowley can see the soft caress of the flatter and the hard claws of jealousy warring inside the angel. 

The waiter leaves their menus which are promptly collected by Aziraphale and Crowley as a way of hedging themselves from Lucifer's shrewd gaze. 

"Hmm. I want to know more about your partner the angel, darling," Lucifer says refilling his glass. "I can't help but feel the strong connection between the both of you… beyond the earthly plane, hmm.  _ How interesting _ ." The corners of his mouth draw higher up and Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand under the table. "I didn't think it was possible between ethereal and occult beings."

Crowley doesn't like this at all. It's like standing on the edge of a platform, at the risk of falling, hearing the high pitch of a train coming closer. And closer. It makes his gut clench.

"What's the reason you summoned me here?," Crowley asks, patience running thin.

"I've missed you, fiercely, and I wanted to see who was now taking my place, of course."

Aziraphale and Crowley choke on air in tandem.

"Er--"

"Kidding!" Lucifer chuckles. "Look, love, the real problem is Hell is now a disaster, and not in the pleasant way it should be." He takes an elegant sip from his wine, encouraging Crowley and Aziraphale to do the same. "After my rambunctious offspring thwarted Armaggedon, it has become difficult to continue according to schedule. Everyone - and I mean everyone - is on each other's throat more than usual and I just had enough."

"Oh, poor dear, you sound rather forlorn," Aziraphale says, patting Lucifer's hand.

Crowley isn't sure if he's still sober or if everything is only an acid trip extracted from the 70's. And yet, of course count on Aziraphale to comfort the Adversary. The only angel capable to devote himself to a demon. Of course this was bound to happen. Crowley  _ ngks _ at the back of his throat. 

"I know!" Lucifer follows. "I left Beelzebub running business but you know how they are like--" he says to Crowley. 

"Mmm."

"Exactly.A stickler for the rules if I ever saw one. So now I'm here in Earth, L.A to be more precise, tending business from afar and I think there's a lot of potential for quality sinning here in London as gloomy, cold and dreary as it is. Why there's so much fog?"

A rock settles in Crowley's stomach. "So, I take you're planning to move in here?"

"Yes! I want to live in this city. I already bought this restaurant to serve as my base of operations," Lucifer says cheerily. "We'll see  _ more _ of each other from now on and let me tell you-- I'd love to spend more time in the company of this lovely angel." Lucifer throws a wink at Aziraphale and Crowley's toes curl in his snake boots.

_ Absolutely not. _

"There has to be another way!"

Lucifer looks at him with a blank expression.

"Are you saying I should stop looking for the best interests of Hell? Stop spreading my hellish wiles?" There's sweet poison in that voice, heavy and slick in Crowley's ears. "You frustrated my plans once, do you want to frustrate my personal business as well? It's a dangerous thing to do-- especially with so much to lose…" 

Lucifer slinks closer to Aziraphale and the angel shivers, a haze of fear over his beautiful grey-blue eyes.

Crowley's heart turns to a chunk of ice in his chest.

"Not-- not what I meant at all."

"Then what do you suggest?"

Lucifer's gaze is bright, black pupils surrounded by Hellfire. Crowley knows he could lose everything dear to him with a snap from Mr. Scratch. There's panic surging in his throat, hands clammy…

Aziraphale jumps from his seat like a jack-in-the-box. "Could you give us a moment, please?"

"Of course, I'll be ordering our food while I wait."

Aziraphale, priorities first, allows himself a retort. "We haven't told you what we'd like to have."

"You don't need to, Aziraphale. I always know what everyone wants."

Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand and drags him to the reception again, finally unleashing his neurosis.

"I can't have him here, Aziraphale-- I can't have him breathing on my neck all the time!"

Aziraphale pouts. "Are you sure you wouldn't like that?"

"Stop. Stop that. You know that's absolutely out of the question. And besides," Crowley curls a hand around Aziraphale's tender, soft neck with just a hint of possessive jealousy. "What is he doing to you? I've never seen you so… ready to collaborate with another entity. I don't like the influence he has on you, angel."

"He's not  _ quite _ as bad."

"He  _ is _ the definition of bad! What are you even talking about?! Snap out of it, Aziraphale."

"Well, then what do you suggest?" Aziraphale says crossing his arms over his chest.

"I dunno-- this is going too fast-- Argh! I wish I had known what this was about to shore up our defenses before coming here."

Aziraphale simpers. "We were quite distracted."

Crowley follows suit. "Yes, yes we were."

They both spend precious seconds walking down memory lane, and giggling like blushing maidens.

Finally, Aziraphale offers. "Crowley, what's exactly what Lucifer wants?"

"Uhm, coming to London to ruin my life?"

Aziraphale tsks. "Oh, be serious, dear." He places soothing hands over Crowley's shoulders. "He only wants to expand his business-- have a base in London. He does not necessarily wants to move here, he said so himself, he doesn't like this city."

Crowley's face brightens. "That's-- that's true! He just wants to have temptations done," he says. "If he knew what was happening here-- if the work was done and he was informed… he wouldn't need to be here at all." 

"Well, yes, he needs an informant. Someone to do his evil bidding."

"Got to give it to Her, with the omnipresent perk. Makes things rather easy."

"Yes, and Lucifer doesn't have that and… he  _ trusts _ you."

"Yeah-- My personal Hell--" Crowley pauses and stares intently at Aziraphale. He parses Aziraphale’s voice, that smirk - the real smug bastard trademark - and his eyes widen. "No.  _ No, no, no, no, no. _ I won't do it. Nah, ah, ah. You can't make me."

"Would you prefer to have him here with us?"

"Angel. No. I can't go back to work for him- I'll be miserable  _ aaaaall _ the time!"

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hands between his, and kisses his knuckles. “I can help you. I don’t want him here more than you do, and-- and we can put our own terms! Nothing that hurts humanity. Just temptations that stem from the heart of every human-- We will respect their free will, like always.”

“Are you trying to recreate  _ our _ Agreement?”

“Why not? We’ve done it before.”

“Yes, angel, but the difference is that we’ll do paperwork for Lucifer  _ himself _ , from now on. And I-- I couldn’t  _ bare _ to see you Fall for that.”

A wave of silence unfurls between them. Crowley’s heart is beating somewhere between his chest and his throat, pulsing in his ears, his temples. All of him taut and ready to snap. The idea of having Aziraphale facing the million light year dive, makes him want to crawl back to Hell to relinquish his freedom. Anything to see Aziraphale away from this mess. 

A soft hand tilts his chin up. “That’s not for you to decide." Aziraphale places soft lips against his full ones, and they revel in that kiss for the few seconds they can spare. “It could be worse.”

“No, it couldn’t," Crowley gruffs.

"Yes, it could. We could be dealing with Gabriel."

Crowley hisses at the mention. "Ngh. Fair." 

They make their way back to the table where Aziraphale finds to his shock a succulent plate of Skillet Cod with Lemon and Capers. Even Crowley finds himself satisfied in his picky, finicky tastes by the delicacies in front of him.

"I take you both thought of a solution?" Lucifer asks cool and collected.

Crowley nods and Aziraphale turns to face the Lord of Darkness.

"We'll do it. We'll help you."

"How excellent! Let's toast to it."

Aziraphale raises a hand stopping him. "However, there are some conditions-- some specifications we should discuss."

"Oh, believe me, angel of the Eastern Gate, I'm not intending to make you Fall," Lucifer says. "Quite the contrary. I find our allegiance, highly beneficial. A little demon told me you're not in good terms with my siblings and I don't blame you, they can be absolute tossers."

"Who was it? Was one of the Erics, wasn't it?" Crowley asks.

"That's not important. What's important is that it wouldn't hurt you to have a powerful friend, Aziraphale. We can help each other out."

Lucifer raises his glass and heaving deep, chest shattering sighs, Crowley and Aziraphale do the same.

"Marvellous. Now, let's finish the details."

* * *

Three hours later, Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves, proud owners of one of the most luxurious Hotel/Restaurant in central London and the promises of reenact an agreement with the Origin of all Sins.

"Gosh, I feel like I raced a marathon," Crowley says lounging at their table. Lucifer is gone and Aziraphale is finishing his third dessert.

"How about this," Aziraphale says, licking his spoon clean. "I'll give you a massage and we can try one of the suites."

"Feeling naughty, eh angel?"

Crowley steals closer and nips Aziraphale's flesh, just where throat meets shoulder. 

Aziraphale wiggles in his spot. "None of that dear. We're businessmen now, and we should make sure our property is in tip top condition."

"Huh."

"Yes, and you know what I've heard? That you always should check the resistance of the mattresses and whatnot."

"Wicked, wicked angel," Crowley says getting up and dragging Aziraphale to the elevator, croquembouche completely forgotten. "That's why I married you." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  



End file.
